


Ten O'Clock Postman, Make Me Feel Better

by Depth888



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:09:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29630964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Depth888/pseuds/Depth888
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Ten O'Clock Postman, Make Me Feel Better

At that time, Anthony J. Crowley gives his word not to stare. Ignore it. Pretend he's not interested in anything. And anyway, he has more important things to do than mindless stalking. All in vain. It was ten o'clock on a Saturday morning, and he was hiding behind the curtain at the window, sipping his coffee sleepily,and staring at the local postman.

Anthony watches in fascination as Fell drops the papers into his mailbox and slowly continues on his way. He hums softly to himself. It looks the same as yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and three days ago. A light beige suit, a frayed waistcoat, and a checkered bow tie around his neck. His white hair resembles bird fluff, his full lips are bent in a sweet, good-natured smile, and his gray eyes look at everything around his with tender love.

Unable to stand it, Crowley stops hiding and quickly opens the window. He feels like a complete idiot when he yells at the top of his voice:

"Morning, Mr. Fell!"

The postman shudders and turns around. Looks at him with joy and waves back in a friendly way:

— Good morning, my dear boy! he exclaims softly. — I'm very glad to see you!"

Crowley is startled and almost drops the hot coffee at his feet. He watches with annoyance as the postman continues on his way down the street, humming again. The song was unfamiliar to Crowley, but its motive clung to his mind in seconds.

Anthony forces himself to close the window. Then he sits down on the floor and covers his face with his hands. He's only been living in this damn village for a week, and he's already been in this mess.

Who has a thing for postmen?  
Crowley remembers well the first time he saw Fell. Early Sunday morning exactly eight days ago. He waited for the special services to bring all his belongings into the cottage, and allowed himself to take a walk around Tadfield to get acquainted with the area. It was beautiful, quiet, and comfortable. And, much to Crowley's chagrin, everyone in the village already knew that a young and wealthy Southerner had settled in Tadfield. Crowley hoped that his new neighbors wouldn't line up outside the cottage with fresh pastries, like in an American comedy. He was not particularly sociable and did not want to make friends. He came to this village to work without being distracted by anything else.

The fame that Crowley dreamed of never came to him, but his last picture was a success, and a profitable buyer was found for it. After the sale of The Fall, the artist rented a cottage in an English village with the money he received to take up a new painting. And suddenly the inspiration left Crowley with a whoosh, leaving him floundering in a creative crisis.

Anthony became more and more brooding as he strolled through Tadfield when he felt thirsty. Fortunately, the grocery store was just a few steps away, and Crowley impatiently headed towards it.

A pretty girl with a long shock of curly hair regarded the customer with understandable curiosity. Crowley tried to ignore it, but he realized with a pang that this was something he would have to face for a very long time. He picked up a bottle of mineral water from the counter and went to the cash register when the bell at the front door tinkled to announce a new customer.

\- Anathema, good morning! A cheerful and friendly voice came from behind Crowley. "Honey, I'm fine, just like I always am. Oh, no, please add a couple more chocolate muffins.

"Mr. Fell! The girl smiled, looking over Crowley's shoulder as he grimly counted out the money. — You're early today!"

"Oh, dear, I can't go to sleep on such a lovely day —" the visitor replied.

Crowley sensed his presence behind him, and was genuinely glad that Anathema's attention had shifted to the local. Now he could safely pay and leave, avoiding questions about himself and the reasons for his move.

The girl took the money and Crowley quickly turned to leave the store. However, he did not take into account the fact that the buyer was standing too close to him, and literally crashed into Mr. Fell with his whole body. Anthony's glasses slid down his nose, revealing a slightly startled look. Mr. Fell gave a startled gasp, regarding him with a puzzled expression. But in the next moment, he smiled sheepishly and stood aside to let him pass.

"Sorry," Crowley muttered, adjusting his glasses. Mr. Fell looked at him warmly.

— It's all right, dear.

Crowley blinked slowly.

Dear? Was he being addressed now?

— I shouldn't have taken up your personal space." As far as I know, creative people can't stand it. My apologies, " Fell said, blushing.

Crowley almost groaned. Did the whole village already know who he was and where he came from? Oh, these provinces. He gave Fell an exasperated look. And froze in place.

An ordinary villager? Not a damn thing. There was no hint of what the village had always been associated with in Crowley's mind. He was not young, but he was good-looking, and he was dressed in an old-fashioned but tasteful way. The gray eyes were shrewd, not hiding their sharp intelligence and observation. Fell's smile was kind, but he was also very distant. The man standing in front of Anthony Crowley seemed so out of place that the artist was speechless for a few seconds. Fell could be anything but a villager. There was something noble and exalted about him.

Anthony coughed, muttered a good-bye, and hurried out of the store. Rarely had he felt so stupid.

\- Have a nice day! I hope you enjoy Tadfield! Fell called after him. Crowley didn't answer.

If he had been told at that moment that in a week's time he would be shouting "Morning!" to this man all over the street and smiling like an idiot, Anthony would have laughed and twirled a finger at his temple. He moved to this village to avoid all communication and devote himself to fighting the crisis that had come.

Now he doesn't get enough sleep every morning, wanting to see Mr. Fell at his house again. Crowley has memorized his schedule and knows exactly when the postman will appear on the street. He waits, scratching his neck nervously. When Fell's plump, light figure emerges from the shadows of the trees that line the road, Crowley hides behind the curtain with a touch of shyness and watches him drop the newspapers into a drawer.

He wants to invite him to his house for dinner, but does not dare. Fell, despite his eternal benevolence, seems to him a very closed person who will not allow anyone into his personal space. And certainly not the city's arrogant asshole who nearly knocked him down in the store.

Once accidentally overhearing a conversation between two local gossips, Crowley realizes that he was right. Postman Fell lived alone, had a lot of good friends, but no close friends, rarely went out and loved books. Books and dessert-making were probably his only hobbies. That's not much Crowley has learned. If he had been the usual arrogant, spoiled rich man from London, as the people of Tadfield had already introduced him, he would not have noticed such a man.

But Crowley had been lonely for years, because his work had taken up most of his life; not rich, because his dreams of fame had been dashed against the rock of fierce competition; pathetic, because he couldn't summon the courage to invite Fell to a friendly meeting. All he could do was sneak a peek at the postman from the window in the morning and bite his lip in frustration.

What if he refuses?

What if he gets it all wrong?

Or worse, right?

Anthony finds a thousand and one reasons not to ask the postman out on a date and naively believes that they are enough to give up the idea. He makes himself a list of rules for dealing with Fell and hangs it on the refrigerator door.

1\. Don't stare at the postman like a hungry python.  
2\. Don't yell "Morning!" at him all over the street, scaring the local dogs.  
3\. Don't flirt or try to seduce.

One fine morning, Crowley outrageously breaks all the rules, instead of the traditional cup of coffee, pouring in half a glass of whiskey. He comes out on the porch of the house, dressed in black pajamas, barefoot and with unkempt hair. With his heart pounding in his chest, Crowley listens to the postman humming as he makes his way to his house.

Fell stammers, breaking off when he spots the artist. Crowley smiles at him in a completely stupid way. He sways slightly in place, like a sleepy snake, his bare legs are a little cold, but his chest is hot, as if someone has lit a fire inside.

"Hello, dear," Fell says in a different tone.

"Hello, angel," Crowley says happily. He's already gone downhill as a mysterious person and as a person in general, so there's nothing left to lose.

The postman swallows noisily. Anthony understands his confusion. Up to this point, Fell had only seen him for a few minutes a week, and all these minutes Crowley had been trying hard to play the role of the rude and eccentric rich man that the people of Tadfield had imposed on him.

Now, in front of the postman stood a lovesick and indecently happy idiot.

"Who?" Angel? Fell asks, flushing slightly. Crowley nods confidently. Fell frowns, taken aback by this unexpected greeting.

Crowley continues to smile, as he feels himself sliding further into the abyss.

"Would you like to have a drink with me?" — " he asks, almost pleadingly, which doesn't fit with his cool and sexy image.

"I beg your pardon?" I'm at work! - the postman squeaks in surprise.

"Not now. Then. In the pub. Some day, " Crowley says in a crumpled voice, no longer even hoping for success.

Fell looks at him with a kind of startled expression.

"Perhaps," he answers evasively. Anthony takes it as a no, carefully wrapped in a polite wrapper. "Good day, Mr. Crowley."

Anthony follows him with his eyes full of longing. This is a complete failure. He'd been afraid to make the first move for weeks. And when he did, he was simply dismissed with cold politeness.

He returns to the house, full of unfinished paintings and hopeless loneliness. The new life at Tadfield promised to turn from good to unbearable. From all the unfinished sketches, a picture of Fell looks at Anthony and says a stern "No"to him.

In the evening, Crowley gets drunk in proud solitude. Fortunately, the pub is not crowded, and the bartender is an understanding person. The jukebox merrily plays Secret Servis "Ten O'CLOCK Postman", as if deliberately mocking the hapless artist. Crowley allows himself to ignore the curious glances of the occasional visitor directed in his direction.

He's been drinking a glass of whiskey for years, filled with self-pity and self-loathing. And the devil had pulled him out into the street on this ill-fated morning! A man like Mr. Fell is not likely to be tempted by the company of a dubious type who indulges in alcohol at ten in the morning and walks around in his pajamas. If Mr. Tyler had seen Crowley like this, his outraged screams would have been heard by the entire village.

Drunk and completely depressed, Crowley gets out of the pub around twelve in the morning. He is still poorly oriented in the village, so it is difficult to find the street that is most familiar to him in the light of day. He groans under his breath when he realizes he's right in front of Mr. Fell's house. There is a faint light in the window, and a familiar, plump figure flashes past the curtains.

And what the hell was he doing here? He won't really…

Crowley presses the doorbell with a silly grin. He feels confused, offended, and misunderstood. He wants an explanation, and he'll get it right now.

The door to the house opens five minutes later. Fell stands on the threshold, wrapped in a Tartan rug, and looks at the artist with genuine surprise and something else, very incomprehensible. Anthony forgets everything he wanted to say in an instant.

"Mr. Crowley?" What happened? How do you know I live here? "What is it?" the postman asks, looking at him through his small round glasses. Crowley is fond of thinking that they are very suitable for him. He takes a few seconds to admire the entire view of Fell before answering more or less intelligibly.:

"Angel, I'm lost.

Fell's mouth drops open in surprise. Crowley adds hastily:

"Lost, actually. I can't remember how to get home. This damn village is like a real maze.

"You're drunk."

"You're damn observant, angel.

"Please stop calling me that, dear boy.

"Stop calling me boy," Crowley snaps weakly. He tries to stumble inside the house, but Fell blocks his way with a slight panic.

— Where are you going, Mr. Crowley?"

The artist sighs bitterly, realizing that the attempt failed. Wearily, he rests his head on Fell's shoulder, making him wince.

"Come on, angel, you're not going to leave me sleeping on the street, are you?"

— You won't be spending the night with me, either!" The postman says indignantly. — What are you doing?" "What is it?" he asks in a panic as Crowley inhales the scent of his hair.

"Mmm, it smells like honey."

"Crowley! Stop it now! Fell squeals, pushing the artist away from him. He bumps his shoulder into the door frame, loses his balance, and falls off the porch, hitting the ground with his backside. Fell makes a startled exclamation.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment. Then Fell sighs heavily and disappears into the house. Crowley thinks he's been sent again in the most shameless way, but suddenly the figure of the postman appears in the doorway. He looks determined, and is fully clothed and shod.

"I'll walk you back to your house," Fell says sternly, " but if you come to me like this again, don't expect such kindness again."

Crowley smiles happily. Fell holds out a hand to help him up, and he squeezes it greedily. Anthony leans heavily on his own legs and leans against Fell's shoulder, causing him to gasp.

— What is this punishment for?" — Crowley can hear the whispers of the postman.

They walk slowly down the street, lit by the occasional streetlamp. Fell says nothing. Crowley never shuts up. He talks about his work, about his short-lived success, about how happy will finally move to a quiet place, about how some days draws the postman Fell, determined to make his angel in his new film, because he dreams the past few nights in a row, he talks about what's in his heart, not knowing that in the morning all remember, this will be horrified by their actions.

Fell listens in silence, without interrupting or trying to ask him to be quiet for a while, for which Crowley is truly grateful. He only stops talking when the two of them stop in front of his own house. Fell looks at him with the same benevolence, though his irritation has not yet subsided.

"So that's why you asked me to have a drink with you in the pub," he says excitedly. — You wanted to ask me to be your model." But you was shy. Am I right?

Only half of it, but Crowley nods vigorously.

— I was sure you'd say no." I wanted to approach this conversation a little...a little…

"You know I have a job," Fell interrupts.

"You're free on Sundays," Crowley retorts.

— I have things to do on Sundays, too.

"Making cakes and reading?" Crowley snorts. Fell looks unsure.

"I'm afraid I must decline…

"No nudity, nothing that looks indecent to you, and a fee that's twice what you get in the mail," Crowley says quickly. — I only need a couple of hours on one day of the week, and the rest of the time you're completely free."

Fell looks at the artist thoughtfully. After a few seconds he says hesitantly:

— Well, I'll think about it. The offer is quite reasonable. I hope you're able to walk to bed on your own?"

"Quite," Crowley says, sounding offended. He lets go of the mailman's hand and honestly tries to walk to the porch himself, but immediately loses his balance. With a sigh, Fell takes his hand again and leads him to the door.

— If I'm an angel, you must be a demon." The demon of stupidity and drunkenness — " he grumbles.

Crowley giggles merrily as he tries to get the key into the lock. Fell doesn't know what it is that makes him laugh, but Anthony isn't ready to explain it to him.

"Good night, Mr. Crowley," Fell says formally, but the artist quickly interrupts him.:

"No!" No "Mr.", angel. After you saw me like this and walked me home, forget that word. You can call me "darling" or "my darling", I don't mind at all.

Fell's cheeks turn red in a second.

"I'll just call you Crowley," he says, and Anthony nods.

\- That's great! From this day on, I'm "Just Crowley"! How long are you going to stand here?"

The postman blinks in confusion.

"Actually, I'm going to go home, — he says, in the tone of one who speaks to mentally retarded children.

"Alone?" At this time of night? Do you think I would leave you in such a dangerous position? Now I just have to take you in, angel of my heart — " Anthony says pompously, in a terrible parody of chivalrous manners.

"Go to bed, Crowley! Fell raises him voice. He looks so outraged that Anthony decides not to take any more chances.

"All right," he says dutifully, admiring the angel's menacing appearance. He watches Fell for a few moments as he heads back to his room. Then he smiles happily and goes to his bedroom, where there are many sketches on the floor with images of an angel and a demon in the most compromising poses.

Crowley is almost late in the morning. In his haste to get out of bed and head out into the street, he hits his foot painfully on a wooden stool and almost hits the floor. But at the last moment, he miraculously keeps his balance, thus saving his nose from a powerful blow.

"I'll throw it out!" Anthony promises the stool, hissing, and runs out with a vague hope. It appears on the porch at exactly the moment when the Fell down the newspaper in his Inbox. For a few seconds, they look at each other with embarrassment. Crowley is the first to break the silence.

"Angel, that's not what I meant by what I said yesterday!" — What is it? " he says, running his fingers through the hair on the back of his neck in a panic. "And forget everything I did yesterday!" I promise that such a disgrace will never happen again! And ... damn it, play along a little, I'm actually trying to apologize here!

Fell smiles slightly. Fortunately, he's not angry at all. Crowley notices the quick, affectionate look that passes over his rumpled pajamas and the red hair that sticks out in all directions. But the next second, the postman immediately puts on a stern face.

"I'm sorry to hear that —" he says. — After all, I was about to agree to your ridiculous offer to be a model."

Crowley makes a half-choked sound. Fell smiles again and continues:

— The fact is that the salary I receive at the post office is not enough to buy a couple of second-hand book editions that I was recently lucky enough to find. And I decided that there was nothing wrong with a couple of hours a week to pose for your paintings.

Anthony swallows the joyous " Yes! Oh, yes!" He tries his best to pretend to think, but from the quiet laughter in Fell's voice, he can't fool him.

"My offer still stands," Crowley says, giving up. — Come to me at one o'clock on Sunday afternoon.

Fell looks interested.

— Do I have to change into something to maintain the image? "What is it?" he asks. Crowley would have preferred to strip him completely. But instead, the artist responds with restraint:

"Only if you don't mind." I have a couple of prepared suits.

Which he would have to invent and prepare himself within a week, but Fell didn't need to know about that.

The postman nods. Suddenly, he looks back at Crowley with a familiar expression that makes him feel a little shiver all over his body. But suddenly he looks down, embarrassed, and instantly aloof.  
\- I don't mind. I'm very glad you haven't changed your mind, Crowley, " Fell says formally. Blushing slightly, he continues on to deliver the rest of the mail. Anthony waves contentedly, looks after him for a long time.

Back in the house, he flops down on the floor and closes his eyes, feeling his heart ache with anticipation. The picture for Fell has long been created in his imagination, and in it Crowley stands with him, seeking protection from the storm under the snow-white angel's wing.

The days before Sunday are fleeting. Every morning of these days, Crowley sits on the porch with a cup of coffee and greets Fell with a smile when he brings him the mail. The postman, to the artist's relief, is always glad to see him. He continues to ask questions about the work on the painting. Anthony patiently explains everything he wants to know.

Yes, you will have to stand in the same position for about two hours. Yes, the clothes for the image are ready, but they are not the most important thing in the picture. No, this work will not offend anyone's religious feelings, but it may seem a little pretentious for Fell himself.

Fell himself still behaves decorously and disgustingly polite. But Crowley notices his eyes on him, full of admiration and interest, and each of them warms the artist's heart.

When Sunday comes, Anthony is nervous as hell. He tidies the house carefully, hiding away all the incriminating drawings and sketches from the past, which would undoubtedly have raised unnecessary questions from Fell, if he had noticed them. He airs the studio, prepares the angelic robe that used to be a sheet, arranges his own workplace. He looks at his watch impatiently and suddenly remembers that he forgot to buy some wine to celebrate their agreement with Fell after all the work he has done.

Calling himself a jerk, Crowley hurries to the store. But it doesn't have time. Fell arrives half an hour ahead of schedule. When Crowley opens the door with a sinking heart, the postman smiles brightly. In his hand, he holds two bottles of wine and a voluminous package that exudes a fragrant smell.

"Crowley, dear, I took the liberty of coming in a little early so we could eat together. I hope you don't mind the German cake and the Chateauneuf du Pape? Fell says, a little embarrassed, standing in the doorway.

Anthony wants to kiss him. Barely able to resist, he invites the postman into the house, takes the cake and wine from his hands. Fell walks into his room, looking at the interior with interest. Crowley pours them some wine, careful not to spill it, and cuts the cake. After placing the glasses (he had no glasses) and the plates on a tray, he goes into the room. Trying not to look nervous, Crowley sets the tray down on the table next to the sofa that Fell has already chosen.

"You have a very beautiful house," says Fell, " old — fashioned style and modern, intertwined together, it's original.

"Thank you," Anthony says, coughing. Fell picks up his glass, and then Crowley realizes that he's nervous, too. This gives him a reason to relax a little.

"You know, the first time I saw you," Crowley says slowly, " I thought you looked like an angel."

\- Oh. The look on Fell's face only deepened his embarrassment. Anthony is glad of that.

\- Yes. And I wanted to portray you in my painting.

Crowley taps his fingers impatiently on his knee. His chest feels hot again, as if some sadistic Cupid has decided to barbecue his heart.

"To be honest, I was surprised when you asked me for this job," Fell says, not looking at Crowley. — I'm just an ordinary village postman…

"Not for me! Anthony interrupts confidently. Fell looks at him with a faint fondness.

"Thank you, Crowley. It's very nice to hear that.

Anthony knows he'll regret it. But if he doesn't make up his mind now, he won't make up his mind ever. Taking a deep breath, he speaks sincerely, afraid to look Fell in the face:

— And I've wanted to kiss you ever since I saw you outside my house."

Fell looks at him, his mouth hanging open in shock.

\- Oh. I see, " he says vaguely. — Well. I've known this since the night you came to my house drunk and behaved inappropriately.

Anthony cringes, anticipating his anger, the subsequent flight, and the months of alienated silence until the artist can't stand it and moves out of Tadfield for good, taking his broken heart with him.

"I must confess, my boy," says Fell, swallowing, — that your disorderly, flighty appearance, with which you have so often met me in the morning, also gives me a certain feeling.

Crowley cringes even more.

"What's that?" he asks in a low voice.

\- This.

Fell puts an arm around his thin shoulders, squeezes him gently. His pose almost exactly repeats the artist's intended pose of the angel in the picture. Crowley is stunned by this discovery. Fell seems to be trying to cover him carefully, and Anthony makes a vague sound that is quickly interrupted by a soft kiss.

Crowley's eyes are literally popping out of their sockets. Fell's eyes are closed, his face serene. Crowley gives in and opens his mouth a few seconds later, almost closing his eyes in pleasure. He forgets about everything in the world, and first of all about the stupid picture. Fell gives him a shallow, gentle kiss that makes Anthony's knees shake.

Fell feels it and starts stroking them in a soothing gesture. It doesn't help at all. Crowley feels his own arousal begin to grow and pulls away, startled. Fell looks at the artist with bleary eyes.

— That's not what I wanted!" Crowley blurts out. — I mean, this one, too, yes! I was just thinking of taking you to the pub first, then to dinner, then to be my model. I had a real strategic plan!

Fell raises an eyebrow.

"Honey, you should have moved faster. You've had a whole month to put your plan into action. I'm very tired of waiting. I was crazy about you even before we ran into each other in the store, and in those days I didn't even dream about it…

"What?" Crowley asks in a hoarse voice. Fell runs a gentle finger over his parted lips.

— I'm familiar with your work. I don't stay in Tadfield all the time, and sometimes I go to London to visit galleries or concerts. The first time I met you was at the Falls exhibition. Darling, you were both a charm and a temptation. I couldn't take my eyes off you any more than I could take my eyes off your painting. You didn't notice me, but that's not surprising. There were people all around you, and I was too shy to come any closer. Imagine my surprise when I found out that you had moved to live in my village! When we ran into each other in the store, I had to make a huge effort not to betray my feelings. I asked for a change of station at work so I could see you in the morning at least once in a while. I couldn't have hoped for anything more. When you came to my house, I realized that I could hardly resist my own dream for long. After all, I was already hopelessly in love with you.

"And pushed me down the stairs," Crowley mutters softly, taken aback by Fell's admission.

"Honey, I was too scared. But then I realized that if I didn't show some courage, I'd always be just another boring postman for you, " Fell says with a sigh. Crowley presses his body against his, covering his lips with a kiss.

"I'm sorry, angel," he whispers. — It was unforgivable not to see you in the gallery." But all I wanted to do at that exhibition was to get out of there as soon as possible. I hate it all. And you never seemed boring to me. I fell for you as soon as I saw you. You've given me an inspiration I never expected. I'm sorry if I've been rude to you.

"It doesn't matter now, dear. Something else is important.

Fell's nimble hand covers Crowley's thighs, fingers gently tracing his cock through the fabric. Anthony makes a strangled sound, more of surprise than passion.

— You don't mind, do you, my boy?" Fell asks, his voice strained.

Anthony covers his hand with his own, holding him even tighter. He moans again, burying his face in Fell's shoulder. The postman strokes him with slow, unhurried movements, making him gasp.

"You know, I wrote you a bunch of secret messages," he says in a whisper. — In them, I openly confessed to you what I thought I would never be able to do. But I didn't dare put any of these letters in your mailbox.

"I want to read them all," Crowley whispers hoarsely, pushing into the warm palm.

"Then I'll try to get them to you as soon as possible," Anthony feels Fell smile.

Crowley tugs hard on Fell's arm, knocking him over on the sofa cushions. His angel groans in surprise, but obediently lies down on top, covering himself. Anthony feels his excitement, and the artist finally covers the passion. He jerks his hips unconsciously and violently, trying to get more friction between their bodies.

Fell sighs noisily and quickly, squeezes Crowley against the pillows, and tries a new rhythm that makes Anthony's breathing falter. He moans softly, burning with tenderness for this man, shudders and squints with pleasure. Fell caresses his neck and collarbone with her lips, inflaming the skin with her breath. In less than a couple of minutes, Crowley arches his back in pleasure. Fell follows him almost immediately, moaning hot confessions into Anthony's mouth, burying her fingers in the red, disheveled strands of hair.

The picture, the cake and the wine on this day do not remain forgotten, although it would be logical. After a little tidying up, Anthony and Fell have lunch together, sitting right on the floor, and the artist can't help but ask.

— So you fell in love with me at first sight?" And you've been dreaming about me all this time?

"Not as often as you might imagine, my boy," Fell smiles thinly. — But you've become my ideal." You're wonderful, Crowley. Your talent is amazing. "The Fall" and the fact that you portrayed it… So much pain and despair. So much hope that it's not too late to fix it. And that awful realization on that poor guy's face… I've seen your past paintings, and they're no worse, believe me. But it is this one that causes the strongest emotions.

"He's got a rich client," Crowley says, nodding. — I rented this cottage because of my talent. But I'm afraid that's the end of my road to success.

Fell looks at him sympathetically.

"Darling, don't you understand? Your journey has just begun. I'm sure your next picture will make the same splash.

Anthony looks at him gratefully.

— What about you?" "What is it?" he asks. — How did someone like you become an ordinary village postman?"

— What do you mean?" Fell stiffens.

"Come on, angel, you're as much a mailman as I am the head of a criminal gang.

Fell chuckles softly.

— You would be very hot in the image of the mafia, dear.

"Don't try to dodge it, angel. We both know you don't belong in Tadfield. You don't look like a typical villager. I noticed it the first time we met.

\- Really? Fell smiles. — What do I look like?"

Crowley leaned in slightly.

"A respectable, rich gentleman who's trying to amuse himself with a new way of life because he's tired of being bored."

"Oh! Fell looks shocked. "You're very perceptive, dear.

He gently touches his cheek, gently runs his fingers behind his ear, tickling the skin. Crowley, unable to resist, reaches for a kiss, but Fell suddenly pulls away.  
"You're right about almost everything," he admits. — I was really rich.

Anthony blinks in disbelief.

— I lived in London, ran an antique bookshop, and could afford a lot of things. But my inability to communicate with people and my unwillingness to sell the most valuable copies played a cruel joke on me. My shop was ruined, there was no longer enough money to rent an apartment, and I moved into a country cottage that my parents had inherited from me. Working at the post office helps me not to sink into poverty completely. I'm afraid I can't do any other job — "Fell says, adding with a smile," I used to complain about my fate. But now I'm happy because I met you.

He kisses the top of Anthony's head affectionately.

— You are my greatest asset, dear. And you'll definitely help me break my boredom.

Crowley kisses him lightly, tugs impatiently, but Fell gently resists.

"My dear, it's not that I mind," he says sheepishly, noticing the confusion in his light brown eyes. — Actually, I'm very much in favor, because you're just mind-blowing, my love. But I'd really like you to start working on the painting. I must admit, I can't wait to get started myself.

"All right," Anthony says reluctantly.

Snatching another tender kiss, he gets up a little awkwardly from the floor. She holds out her hand to the postman, helping him to his feet. With an arm around his shoulders, he leads him to his studio, where everything is ready.

To Crowley's great relief, his angel decides to change clothes in proud solitude. The artist is not sure that he could resist watching Fell's white and soft body exposed. When he appears, dressed in a loose robe and with bare feet, Anthony's brain is jammed, forcing him to think only about how to get under the cotton fabric and kiss the angel wherever he will allow you to reach.

— How should I get up?" Fell asks, and Crowley comes to his senses. Mentally giving himself a slap on the head and ordering him to get ready, he thinks for a few more seconds.

"Go to the window." Turn around to face me.

Fell obediently obeys the order. He gets a little nervous and locks both hands together, and Crowley thinks it's the perfect position.

"Yes, that's it. Now hold still.

The sunlight falls on Fell's hair and face, as if deliberately giving him a new image of sanctity. Crowley thinks that in a little while he will see the huge snow - white wings behind him. He admires the angel's view for a few more seconds and stands behind the easel. He picks up a pencil with slightly trembling fingers.

"If you get tired, tell me," he warns Fell. — We'll take a break.

"Don't worry, my dear," he says with a smile. — I go around the whole village in a couple of hours every week. I can stand still for as long as that.

"Well, well," Anthony mutters, but decides not to argue.

An hour later, Fell predictably gives up. Crowley puts down his pencil, sits him down on the couch, and brings him water.

\- Oh… It's harder than I imagined, " Fell says, flexing the stiff muscles in his arms and legs.

Crowley plops down on the couch next to him, resting her cheek on his soft shoulder. Fell gently wraps his fingers around his chin, lifting it up to brush his lips against his. This time the kiss is not so much gentle as insistent and greedy, and Anthony shudders violently.

\- Ngh! An angel! If you keep this up…

"Hush, my dear. I'm afraid we should take our time now, " Fell says, and Crowley agrees with him completely. He doesn't want what has flared up so much between them to suddenly end so soon.

They return to work on the painting five minutes later.

After a couple of weeks, they finish it.

All this time, the atmosphere around them is saturated with a lingering sweet tension, when a fleeting touch or careless word in the heart flares up and waves through the body, gives rise to passionate impulses and the need to feel more and sharper. But Crowley endures stoically, and Fell escapes with exhausted smiles, not knowing that his thoughts betray his own blushing cheeks.

Anthony is happy. In the first few days, he is afraid that their relationship will become another meaningless affair, but nothing like this happens.

He still looks forward to seeing Fell in the morning, sitting on the porch in his pajamas, a steaming cup in his hand. This time, the postman is in no hurry to leave. He drinks the cocoa that has been prepared for him, and stealthily kisses Crowley, hoping that none of the locals will notice. With the excitement of giving him into the hands of another letter, sealed with the seal of green wax.

Anthony never tires of re-reading each of these letters, enjoying the feelings of the angel that they reveal to him and that he dared to hide for so long.

And in the evenings, they sit in the artist's studio, get drunk on wine and talk, talk about everything in the world. Crowley, at such moments, is restrained by nothing less than a miracle. He unconsciously admires the angel's lips, his gestures, his relaxed pose. He barely holds back a groan, remembering how a week ago Fell had knocked all the air out of him with just the movements of his soft thighs, how he had brought him to orgasm in just a few minutes. Devil ... God… Anyone can see how Anthony wants to experience the weight of the angel's body on himself once again.

Fell's not holding up any better, but he's not giving up either. Crowley is pleased to catch his greedy and at the same time fascinated looks. Enjoys his unobtrusive care and attention, every light caress of his confident strong fingers. Anthony doesn't know if he ever felt so wanted and loved again.

But when they work in the studio, all the desire that they have carefully restrained suddenly turns into something truly divine, and now Crowley partly understands why Fell asked them to take their time. This feeling is incomparable, it makes Anthony literally float his thoughts somewhere on the other side of the Universe, while he paints the face of his angel on the canvas.

Every brush stroke is the touch of his fingers on the beloved, his expression of love for his Muse, all of Anthony's work is an enthusiastic praise of his Angel.

All this time, Fell never asks for a break, as if he feels Anthony's emotions and does not want to interrupt them. With a smile full of tenderness, he does not take his eyes off the artist, and sincerely believes in his success.

A fallen demon will never have to suffer pain again. He will be able to soar into the sky again and find a well-deserved happiness among the stars.

When Anthony finishes painting the picture, sitting on an uncomfortable wooden stool, he can almost physically feel the real wings unfolding behind him, giving a release and an incomparable feeling of flight.

The painting "The Wall" makes a splash, for which Anthony J. Crowley is completely unprepared. He is invited to present his own work at the National Gallery in London. Anthony is terribly nervous and still does not believe in what is happening. Two months ago, he had come to Tadfield, having almost completely put an end to his career.

Fell doesn't share his sentiments.

"Honey, you deserve every bit of this success," he says as they drive to the gallery together. Anthony looks at him gratefully. His nervous excitement slowly subsides.

— I couldn't have done it without you, angel.

Everything is going even better than he expected. There is a good buyer for the painting and Anthony is not happy for the first time, because this creation is something more for him than all the past ones.

In it, an angel covers a demon with a wing, hiding it from the raindrops, looks with unspeakable tenderness, and the fallen creature looks surprised and happy. There was someone in the world who loved him, despite his black wings and his cursed disfigured appearance.

Crowley and Fell do not stay at the banquet, which is arranged after the auction. They return to Tadfield late in the evening, tired and nervous. Crowley timidly asks if Fell wants to stay with him, and he agrees. They take a bath in turn, and then lazily bask in bed, sharing their impressions of a difficult day.

Anthony is surprised to realize that the desire that has been assailing him for the past month has now disappeared, giving way to drowsiness. In addition, Fell holds him so comfortably in his arms that the artist is even too lazy to move. He doesn't realize how slowly he falls asleep as Fell gently ruffles his wet hair and whispers words of love in his ear.

A couple of days later, they move to London together. Spacious apartment of the artist in the back of the Room easily accommodates a good amount of things fell. Anthony fulfills an old dream, buying a rare Bentley from a collector who has been waiting for him, Fell again opens his second-hand bookstore and can not resist a loud curse when he sees what he has become in the months of his absence.

In the evening, they celebrate the move with dinner at the Ritz and a long, pleasant walk in St. James ' Park. At night, Crowley praises his angel again, but not with a pencil and brush, but with long, hot moans, while Fell takes him with unhurried tenderness. In turn, the angel praises the body of his lover, who accepts him with such hot greed, makes him feel all the love that he has been holding back lately. The simultaneous prolonged orgasm makes them both see unfamiliar stars in front of their eyes.  
In the morning, the angel and the demon prepare breakfast together for the first time. Anthony spills the coffee on the table as he watches Fell toss the pancakes in the pan. Fell, in turn, almost drops another pancake on the floor when Crowley leans over for a rag, sticking out his curvy ass.

The breakfast predictably ends with Anthony crawling under the table and tasting Fell, causing him to cling to the tablecloth with his fingers and try not to moan too loudly. When it comes to Crowley himself, he completely forgets about propriety, weaves his fingers into the curly hair of the angel and makes such sounds that you can hear an approving whistle and someone's cheerful hooting from the street.

Over time, their affairs are finally getting better. Fell's shop, thanks to his new trading tactics, is beginning to thrive. Crowley slowly but surely achieves the desired fame by continuing to paint the love story between an angel and a demon.

They walk around London all their free time. They feed the ducks in the park, visit museums and concerts, and find their favorite places to return to more than once.

In a week's time, they are going on a joint trip in a Bentley across Europe. They stay in Italy for a short time, because Crowley is suddenly inspired and paints two paintings in which an angel and a demon are shown for the first time as ordinary people. In the future, one of them will become more popular than the "Wall".

A month later, Anthony suddenly chokes on a gold ring that was hidden in the bottom of his champagne glass. Fell, genuinely horrified, helps him spit out the ring and catch his breath. Then, with charming embarrassment, he makes an offer, to which Crowley, with wheezes and wheezes, but confidently answers "Yes".

A year later, they buy a cottage in the South Downs and move there permanently. Fell sets up an extensive library on the second floor and takes full possession of the kitchen. Crowley sets up a luxurious backyard garden and sets up a studio to work in the basement of the house. Their family life becomes the main hot topic for the locals, but both of them are not affected at all.

They were like an angel and a demon from a painting, who were able to find each other by a happy coincidence. And the aura of their sincere love covered the entire South Downs.


End file.
